


Small Print 2: Guilty Pleasures

by TheFierceBeast, VioletSmith



Series: Small Print [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Kink, Case Fic, Crobby - Freeform, Cutting, Exhibitionism, Guilt, Guilty Pleasures, King of Hell Crowley, Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, POV Bobby Singer, Protective Crowley, Series, Voice Kink, hot bear on bear action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 07:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12185607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: Follows on from Small Print 1. Bobby can't stop thinking about the dreams he's having, which proves a little awkward when Crowley shows up uninvited in his kitchen.





	Small Print 2: Guilty Pleasures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SulitDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SulitDragon/gifts).



> This'll have more bits following on, but we're awkward and prefer to use a series than chapters :p
> 
> Smaychel wrote Crowley, TheFierceBeast wrote Bobby. Thank you to anyone who reads this <3

This has been happening entirely too often, lately. Bobby wishes he knew _why_. He'd had no memories of Hell, at first, no memory of Crowley carving the terms of their contract onto his skin. But at night whatever binds the memories tight seems to loosen, and glimpses shine through the cracks, unable to be contained.  
  
It's too real. Too immediate. He wakes confused and soaked in sweat and full of feelings he doesn't want to examine. Feelings that are quick to curdle to shame in the light of day. It's been weeks. He tries to drown it in drink, but the lack of rest is starting to get to him.  
  
This morning, waking from another half-remembered, blood-soaked dream just as the sky is starting to consider lightening, Bobby finds himself pressing fingers to his skin in the places where the knife bit him. Places he can still _remember_ the pain of being cut, the exquisite agony of it. He's fought it so long, but he's weary. Exhausted. Helpless to do anything but rub the heel of his hand against his swollen, achey dick and think about how it felt to have his skin opened up like that. All those inhuman eyes watching it happen. Crowley's voice in his ear, the low buzz of it, steady and reassuring. Grounding. A counterpoint to the white-hot pain of the blade that flayed him so bare. Bobby moans, his hips lifting. The covering of sheets, of the shorts he's wearing, feels constricting. He remembers being light. Weightless. Nude. He curls his hand loosely around the length of his cock, rubs slowly through soft jersey. He'd been displayed to that audience, vulnerable and naked. They'd seen. Crowley had _seen_.  
  
Bobby finds himself shifting into the position Crowley had had him in. Supine, legs parted, every part of him exposed to the knife. He struggles out of his shorts, kicks the sheet off. He wants, _needs,_ to be bare. He cups his balls in one hand. They're full and tight, he's been denying himself too long, trying to pretend the dreams don't affect him. He squeezes gently and it's a sweet sort of ache, like an old bruise. Did Crowley cut him here? Fuck. He can't remember. Why can't he remember?  
  
The images he can recall flicker dimly in his memory now like a loop of old film. Snatches of red and black. Lascivious smirks. The flash of fire on metal and a gentle, rueful smile. The sense memory of scent is fading: he gropes for it, hand squeezing his dick. The smell of blood, diffused into the air, saturating... Bobby groans, begins to stroke himself firmly. Distant unseen laughter, mocking, silenced by the quiet rumble of a masterful voice. He digs his fingernails into his thighs, desperate for... for something. For _pain,_ he realises, shamefully. Damn, it's so wrong. Sick. It shouldn't feel this good, shouldn't be so frustrating that his nails are too short to break the skin. Pinching, he feels the sting of it with a gasp that makes his cock jerk, pulls him closer to relief. Does it again, his cheeks burning, his breath too loud in the hushed privacy of his room. The feeling's building, desperate. He rubs a thumb over the head of his dick, feeling the wet, slick that isn't blood. The memory of that voice is an insistent whisper in his head, goading him on _I've got you, darling... I'm not going to stop until this is completed_. His shoulders tense, his belly, wracked with sudden shudders that punch the breath from him, as he spills with a silent shout to the fantasy of being lovingly dismantled.  
  
The feeling of sated afterglow doesn't last as long as the guilt, which lingers through the day and on into the evening no matter how busy Bobby tries to keep himself. It's a hot day, almost unseasonably hot, and the heat reminds Bobby of Hell. Makes it difficult to concentrate, to think. When Crowley appears out of the blue in his kitchen in the early evening, just as the heat is starting to drop away to something marginally more bearable, Bobby is sure his mind is playing tricks on him. Calling into existence the very being he can't seem to stop thinking about, as if the force of his obsessive daydreaming has conjured the demon into solidity.  
  
He's used to Crowley just dropping by, by now. Usually a greeting comes easy, the practised back and forth that stopped being irksome months ago and became, weirdly, more the kind of companionable banter he'd exchange with a fellow hunter. A friend. He pushes the thought from his head, tries to form some words, but all that'll come out is a vaguely acknowledging grunt, directed at the polished toes of Crowley's shoes.  
  
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Well _ugg_ to you, too, Robert." That voice... Bobby shouldn't react to it the way he does, now. Shouldn't be thinking of this morning, jerking off to the memory of it purring in his ear. Crowley is a _demon,_ for Christ's sake. He's the king of the demons, he represents everything Bobby has spent his life fighting. The sound of his voice shouldn't make Bobby's toes curl with wanting.  
  
"Make sure you wipe your feet on the mat." Bobby says.  The words are gruff, repressed lust and crawling embarrassment he hopes will pass for crankiness. He picks up a plate from the draining rack, starts to stack and put away crockery that's not seen the inside of the cupboard in weeks. Anything to keep his hands busy, to avoid the heat of those knowing eyes. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"  
  
Somewhere behind him he hears Crowley's footsteps, but he doesn't trust himself to turn around and look. "Sounds like someone got up on the wrong side of bed this morning."  
  
Bobby snorts a laugh, his cheeks flaming hotter. Damnit, he can _feel_ the demon's presence behind him. He clears his throat. "Assuming I even saw my bed and didn't pull another damn all-nighter on research." He turns, and Crowley is too close. Close enough to touch: Bobby's fingers tighten on the mug in his hand, to save himself from dropping it. "Whaddaya want, Crowley?"  
  
Crowley's expression softens into something that might, on another man, a _human_ man, be called concern. "Is that why you're grouchy? Not getting enough sleep?" He tuts. "You know that my assistance is always available," he winks, flirtatious as Hell, "and very reasonably priced. What are you researching at the moment? I'm wondering if it might be the same thing I'm here to chat about, come to think of it."  
  
"Yeah, cos I'm definitely gonna owe you for helpin' me with research." Because that's the help he's referring to, Bobby mentally chides himself, there's no other way this monster could possibly help you get a good night’s sleep. His dick twinges again and for the millionth time he curses his complete damned lack of a poker face. "Local job, but don't sound like any local creature. Could be nothing, but a kid's missing. Boy, fourteen, good student. Seems like the same scenario happened twelve years back, and twelve before that: rang the alarm bells with the boys. We've pretty much ruled out a haunting."  
  
"Hmm. And I presume you've ruled out a human cause." Crowley seems distracted, frowning off into the middle distance somewhere beyond Bobby. He steps to the kitchen counter and a bottle of something expensive looking appears in his hand. "Your boys summoned me, wanted to know if there was any demon involvement. Drink?"  
  
"You offering?" Bobby raises a brow, suddenly aware that he could really, really go a drink right now, and Crowley's fancy booze is looking more appealing than usual. His hands shake only a little as he puts out two tumblers, just in case. Tries not to think of a companionable evening getting toasted and talking shop. "And - do I have to ask, _are_ your crew involved? Timescale pretty much nixes a human bein' behind it, unless we're dealing with some real organised, long-term shit."  
  
Crowley shrugs. "Sorry, love. Not one of mine this time." He pours a quantity into one of the tumblers, and an even more generous quantity into the other. This, he hands to Bobby. "Here. You look like you could use it."  
  
"Thanks." Bobby gives him a tight nod, begrudging how honestly grateful he feels. It ain't 'Craig - he's tasted that stuff often enough since getting acquainted with Crowley to recognised it - but it goes down smooth, warming his throat and settling in his belly, spreading loosening warmth almost like Crowley's touch when he'd... Bobby coughs, covering his mouth with his hand and taking a nervy step back.  
  
Crowley steadies him with a hand on his elbow. It must be Bobby's imagination, how the touch burns. Crowley's grinning. "Good, isn't it? Come on, stop being such a grumpy old man for a few hours and I'll see what I can do to help you with your missing schoolboy problem."  
  
"Get your damn paws off of me." Bobby snaps. Shakes him free, the guilt like a weight in his gut. He doesn't want those hands off him. Quite the contrary. And Crowley's only being cooperative. _Nice,_ even. And that makes Bobby feel like an even _bigger_ asshole.  
  
Crowley sighs. A put-upon sort of sound. "Clearly you're not in the mood for company." He sets down his drink. "I'll get out of your hair."  
  
"Wait." Bobby answers that sigh with one of his own. He's being dumb, he knows it: Crowley's response says it clear enough; this is Bobby's problem, not Crowley's. "Don't be so touchy." He casts Crowley an uncertain glance. "In either sense of the word. Come sit down an' I'll tell you what I know. The boys tell you anything?"  
  
"Painfully little," Crowley replies, with a little roll of the eyes that makes Bobby feel like he's in on a private joke. This is how it's come to be, lately, spending time with Crowley. Comfortable. Like there's someone who gets it, gets how it is, the Winchester boys, the beasts, the books... all the bits and pieces that make up Bobby's ramshackle life.  
  
"Well. You blame 'em?" He can't help the little smile he gives him, that turns uncomfortably shy when Crowley meets his eye. Bobby clears his throat, flops down in the armchair so there's no danger of Crowley joining him on the couch. Crowley sits opposite, neat and fastidious yet somehow totally at ease, the bastard. And Bobby's insides feel jittery, itchy, as he recounts what Sam told him over the phone. "They suited up, talked to the family. Got a whole load of not-much, 'cept the mom seemed spooked by this one weird thing."  
  
He seems interested at that, leans forward minutely in his chair. His black tie, neatly fastened, almost disappears against the black shirt he's wearing. Bobby remembers it loosened, the glimpse of throat that he just barely remembers through the red haze... "Oh yes?" Crowley says. "What weird thing is that?"  
  
"Huh?" Crowley raises an eyebrow and Bobby says, "Oh..." Snaps out of it with a hurried shake of his head. "Kept goin' on about owls. There'd been one at the window of the kid's room, she said. Boy had opened the window, you know kids. Fancied he'd tame it or some nonsense, they had to catch it in a bedsheet and throw it out. But it kept coming right on back. Guess they do that.” Bobby catches Crowley’s eye, immediately drops his gaze, clearing his throat. “Kid's dad reckons it must've been a tame one got set free. He was worried the boy'd left his window open for it and someone got in and took him. But like I said - the mom was spooked." He avoids Crowley's eyes, not trusting himself. Holds out his empty tumbler hopefully in silent question. "Probably coincidence, but d'ya know any likely mythology for owls?"  
  
Crowley seems to be considering this as he refills Bobby's glass. It's not as full this time, which Bobby both resents and appreciates. "Hmm. There are a few that could be relevant."  
  
"I mean aside from the obvious... A Skinwalker maybe, and there's a few creatures I've read about, but - in Kansas?" The whisky burns good, all the way down, and Bobby settles back in his seat. Watches Crowley discreetly as he swirls his own glass. The way he sucks in his cheeks in contemplation, how that makes his lips go all pouty - Bobby lowers his gaze quickly again. It settles, on accident, somewhere around Crowley's lap, where the fabric of his suit pants sits well-cut across a still all-too-prominent bulge. Bobby looks away.  
It's been a long time since he was this fired up over anyone. He'd thought himself past it, really. Settled, comfortable with himself and his own company. Sure, he still notices attractive people. He's not dead to it. But the urgency of it, that has faded a lot since his youth. Enough that it startles him, to be sat here trying not to stare at a good-looking man's dick where it's outlined through his clothes. Demon, he mentally corrects himself – _demon_.  
  
"I think I might have something useful, in my private library," Crowley is saying, thoughtfully. "How's your Malay? Up to scratch?"  
  
Bobby grunts his assent, forcing himself to look Crowley in the eye. "Indonesian? Yeah, I'll get by." He gives a nod, tosses back the dregs in his glass. "Appreciated. So, you'll... drop a book off? Here?" Damn, he shouldn't feel hopeful.  
  
Crowley brushes an invisible speck of lint from his sleeve. "I suppose it's not too far out of my way." He nods, as if coming to a decision. "I'll have it with you by tomorrow. We can work out what particular favour you owe me in return for it later." He smirks, golden-eyed and dangerous.  
  
"Yeah, yeah." Bobby rolls his eyes, giving his best impression of indifference. "Add it to the tab, jackass." He pretends that every inch of his skin isn't buzzing at the fantasies unfolding in his mind.  
  
"Oh, believe me, I will."  
  
Bobby lets out a long, hissing breath as, abruptly, the couch is empty. He's alone in the room with just the lingering scent of Crowley's whisky, the lingering flutter in his belly that'll all too likely accompany him to bed.


End file.
